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MEZOR

Mezor stays in the grotto with Cyrus. He tells himself it’s because the gate needs to recover—he tells himself it’s because he promised to teach Cyrus to shoot with the bow. In truth, his instincts recoil at the idea of leaving Cyrus alone. Seeing him terrified and angry roused a ferocious protectiveness, and he can’t seem to stuff it back down.

Mezor’s bow isn’t for self defense—it’s a hunter’s tool. And anyway, no weapon will keep Cyrus safe from the Court. Only Cyrus’s quick, clever mind can do that. But there’s more than one reason to learn a weapon. Part of Mezor rejoices to see his bow in Cyrus’s hands, to be the one to guide him in using it. It’s another claim. But most important of all, it will give Cyrus confidence—he’s never held a weapon, but he’s an eager pupil.

Before their first training session, Mezor sets up a target far from the cottage. Cyrus follows behind, watching avidly.

“It’s dark. Won’t I hit the wrong thing?”

“You won’t hit anything at first,” Mezor says with a smirk, and Cyrus flushes. “But once you master the bow, the arrow goes where you will it. It’s about strength of mind as much as the strength in your arms.”

Mezor makes him draw and hold hundred times without even nocking his first arrow. Cyrus is strong, but he’s not a soldier, trained and conditioned to the peak of his strength. It will take time to bring his strength out. After a fifty draws, Cyrus lowers the bow, arms trembling and a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He wipes his forehead.

“I can’t even do a simple exercise,” he mutters, slumping.

Mezor sheathes his knife and sets aside the practice arrow he’s carving.

“It will come.”

“I don’t have the power!”

Mezor steps up. “Take the pose.”

Cyrus lifts the bow obediently. It shakes in his hands. Mezor nudges his feet apart and lifts his elbows gently, positioning him. Cyrus’s small frame feels so right in his hands, it’s hard to step away. But he does, glancing critically over Cyrus’s stance.

“Better,” he says. “Now draw.”

Cyrus draws. The bowstring comes past the crook of his arm this time—two thirds of its full draw. He lets it go with a snap and it whips over the muscle, leaving a dark streak on his skin. Only a faint jump in his jaw evidences the pain.

Mezor holds out a white arrow. “Now shoot.”

“I don’t know—” Cyrus protests.

“When the bow is your only weapon, you draw and shoot even if your arms can’t bear any more.”

Cyrus takes the arrow. Mezor adjusts his position once more, pushing the tender muscles to their limit. Cyrus holds himself still, his breath even and steady in spite of the pain.

“Breathe out as you release,” Mezor tells him, and steps back.

Cyrus’s chest falls. He releases.

The arrow goes wide, then it swings around with supernatural power and flies toward Mezor. Cyrus gasps and drops the bow. Mezor snatches the arrow out of the air the instant before it touches him.

Cyrus’s face is ashen. “How did it do that?”

Mezor can’t hold back a chuckle. “Practice arrows from now on. You need to focus on the target, not me.”

“But I—” Cyrus breaks off. Frustration flares through the bond, followed quickly by guilt. He looks down. “I was thinking about the pond. How long you’ve been alone.”

Normally those words would dig into the old bruise of loneliness and set it aching freshly. Mezor finds himself focusing on Cyrus’s tiny frown instead, heart pulsing with the urge to smooth it away.

“Mind on the present,” he says gently but firmly.

Cyrus picks up the bow again. Mezor hands him a practice arrow—slim, dark wood tipped with an iron head and fletched with the mottled feathers of a rok.

His arrows fly short, landing with a clatter on the stone plateau a dozen paces from the target. He practices until exhaustion tinges the bond with bitterness. Mezor sweeps him up then and takes him to bed, watches over him while he sleeps. Cyrus frowns in his sleep, too. This time Mezor does smooth it away, stroking his brow with a thumb until Cyrus sighs in his sleep and unfolds. Mezor’s heart turns in his chest like an animal trying to lie down to rest. He aches for Cyrus even though the little demon is right there.

Cyrus is a ferocious learner. Without natural skill or strength, he’s instead relentless. He sleeps, eats, and breathes the bow. Slowly, the layers of his uniform are stripped away, leaving him in only soft pants and a loose shirt—usually one of Mezor’s. Mezor drinks in the sight of him hungrily. With the uniform go the walls he keeps up, the ever-present wariness in his shoulders. His inner arm grows dark and tender from the lashing of the bowstring. His stance becomes confident instead of tense.

Mezor’s ache grows. One day he finds himself fashioning leather guards out of a discarded piece of armor.

“What are these for?” Cyrus says with an uncertain look.

“To protect your arms.” Mezor gestures for him to hold his limb out and fastens the guard around his slim forearm. Cyrus frowns.

“But you don’t wear these.”

“I also don’t practice five times a day.”

“I don’t need them,” Cyrus says immediately, but he doesn’t pull his arm away.

“Take them anyway,” Mezor replies firmly. He pulls the ties snug and Cyrus hisses as his bruised muscles are squeezed. Mezor strokes his wrist in apology.

Yet the ache isn’t satisfied. Mezor can protect Cyrus from the bowstring—he can even protect Cyrus from the Court, at least for now. But he can’t protect Cyrus from himself. From his own guards, the ones around his mind that have kept him safe for so many years.

The only place Cyrus could truly be himself was his nest. Now that sanctuary has been tainted by ugly violence.

Mezor considers this for a whole week. He watches Cyrus battle the ghost of his burdens in the fierce way he throws himself into life in the grotto. Cyrus learns to put the guards on himself, one-handed, his eyes going to Mezor every time he does it. It makes Mezor’s blood run hot with the desire to smother him in gifts.

Slowly, Cyrus’s aim becomes truer and his draw stronger.

“I will need to return to my task,” Mezor says eventually, when he can no longer pretend otherwise. Cyrus lies on the moss next to him, taking a break, slowly tying and untying the arm guards with meditative movements. He looks like he belongs in the grotto. Like he’s part of Mezor’s life.

“How many seeds do you have left?” Cyrus’s silver eyes are sharp.

“Five.”

Five feels like an eternity. Five feels like not enough time.

Cyrus shuts his eyes. He lets his arms fall to the moss, wide open. His scent says uncertain and exhausted. Mezor wants nothing more than to reassure him. But he can’t take every worry away. It’s not his right.